Serenity's Waltz
by RougeaufSherlock
Summary: Every night, John dreams of a masked man on the moon. Rated T because of mildly described sex.


John rests his head over his pillow and closes his eyes. He is safe, warm, beneath the light of the full moon. Words and images fill his wandering mind and weave together, melting from scattered thoughts to pooling river. His limbs grow heavy and he disappears, surrendering to the weight of sleep. He slips into his familiar dream where he stands before a castle on the moon, looking out to the stars and the spinning earth. He is waiting in the never-ending night between fields of rolling violet. He conjures the wind. Lets it fill him, and watches for his visitor, who some nights will appear before him. A fair-skinned man dressed in black whose face is hidden behind a mask.

This night, he appears and invites John to dance. They weave and spin freely through the violet fields, their only music being the whistle of the wind and the sound of fluttering doves. There is no need to speak, for their company speaks volumes. The stranger is warm, and on the desolate moon, he is home. Their dance draws to a steady halt, and John hesitantly reaches upward. "Show me what is behind your mask."

The stranger obliges, but just as the he begins to untie the strings, John wakes to another day.

Or perhaps it would just be another day, if John had declined his invitation to the masquerade.

Wearing his grey suit and white mask, he enters the ballroom. It is lit golden by the chandeliers and hundreds of burning candles. John is alone, so he wanders through the crowd searching for someone willing to join him in dance. But his search is not fruitful, and just as he is ready to give up, his hand is taken unexpectedly by another's. Large and warm and _safe. _The milky voice of the stranger pulses through him.

"May I have this dance?"

John turns and stares into a familiar face. He is the moon against the night sky in his tuxedo, and John is the silver starlight. It is his masked stranger, the man who visits him in his dreams, and what a sight to behold. Pink rushes to John's face, heats his cheeks, and a nod is his answer to the stranger's request. The masked man pulls him in, and the crowd disappears. It is only John and his stranger.

Bells chime, a harpist plucks her heavy strings, and a soft melody flows from the orchestra.

The stranger pulls him close, so that John's eyes are in-line with his chest. He watches the subtle rise and fall as they twirl through the room, through the invisible crowd.

"We've danced before," the stranger mentions. His voice is like the beat of a bass drum. The scent of his breath reaches John, sneaks into his nostrils and fills his senses. Clean, light. It interrupts stranger's earthy scent, but John enjoys it no less.

The stranger twirls John away and then back in again, this time closer. He fills every sense but one: taste. John _feels_ his human warmth, the rise and fall of his chest. He _hears_ the relaxed beat of his heart, he hears his voice when he purrs, "you feel so familiar to me." He _sees_ him and only him. He _smells_ him. His scent is not strong, but joyfully addicting. Now, John must _taste_ him.

"We've met before," John says. "I dream about you a lot."

The man stiffens, but only for a moment. It's barely noticeable, and his dance never ceases.

"How do you dream of me?" the man asks.

"Well," begins John, "Maybe it's a bit strange, since we don't know each other."

"It's not strange. I'd like to hear it."

John _knows_ it's strange, and thinks for a brief moment that maybe the masked man is trying to coax embarrassment from him, but he trusts the man's sincerity over his own skeptical thoughts. And it strikes him then. He _trusts_ this man, completely and hardly with question.

He takes in a steady breath. "Every night, I stand on the moon and look at the Earth. Occasionally, you visit me, always in that mask, and when you visit, we dance."

The man smiles as if he's hearing his favorite melody.

"For the longest time," continues John, "I've wanted see what you look like without the mask, but I always wake up too soon."

"You're fascinating," whispers the man. His whispers are like a purr that sends coolness throughout John's entirety and makes him shiver. "Follow my lead," he whispers again. For a second, John forgets how to breathe.

They spin elegantly through the room, and John is so heavily focused on his stranger that he hardly realizes the music has stopped playing. He smells the damp scent of night and realizes they are on the balcony. The masked man releases him, and he looks out over the yard, over the lights of the city, and then back to his stranger. He is still beneath his mask, smiling down as if he's forgotten everything in the world but John.

"Would you like to see behind the mask?" asks the stranger. John's pulse quickens. The surroundings zoom out, and the stranger builds in clarity. He nods, and his stranger begins untying the strings. John braces himself to wake.

But he doesn't.

The mask falls, and John _finally _sees the face behind it. High prominent cheek bones and eyes that reflect the Earth and all that it is. Pale, immaculate skin that glows beneath the full moon. He can't be human, John thinks. No. He must be more.

"Do you have a name?" asks John, believing that maybe he doesn't. Maybe angels don't need names.

"Sherlock," he answers.

The answer surprises him.

_Sherlock._

A name found only in dreams or stories, yet grounded in reality. Rare, but easy on the ears. Easy to remember, easy to accept. _Sherlock._ He likes the sound of it, the way it rolls off his tongue and ends with a click. _Sherlock._

Sherlock doesn't ask to do what he does next. He doesn't need to. He slowly, gently, pulls the mask from John's face, his fingers brushing lightly over his skin. Without the mask shielding John's eyes, Sherlock is much clearer. It confirms to John that he cannot be human. No human is this stunning, this ethereal. Sherlock's expression looks like how John imagined his own upon first seeing Sherlock's face. Filled with awe, wonderment, and pure intangible happiness.

"What is your name?" asks the stranger.

"John."

_John_

He plays with the name in his mouth, rolls it through his teeth and over his tongue. "John." He says it sweetly, with curiosity. "John."

John hears the whisper again that night as Sherlock positions himself between his open legs, "John." His name is a moan when Sherlock presses into his skin, fully into his body, under darkness and scattered moonlight. "John."

His name, so common and seemingly uninteresting, is made into song.

Sherlock's entrance into him is painful at first. He stretches him, raw and searing, but he is careful, cautious. Each thrust is not done violently, rather slowly and rhythmically, like the drumbeat to the melody that is John's name. Soon he welcomes him graciously, and begs for more. "Please, Sherlock please."

Their bodies warm to each other, Sherlock kissing every bit of exposed skin his lips can reach. It is all John can do not to allow his body what it wants. He's not ready for the release. He likes the build, he wants to savor Sherlock for as long as he can, but Sherlock is good at what he does. He draws John closer, testing his will power against his exploring hands and gradually quickening thrusts. And finally, Sherlock pulls it out of him: the orgasm, the spilling seed, and then he takes his time. His concentration is unbendable. In his own time he brings it out of himself, the tension of muscle, his eyes popping in ecstasy as he floods generously into John.

_John._

He rolls off, and he and John can only stare for the next few moments. What they just had, what they just did- it was magic. Sherlock's skin glistens, covered by a cool film of moisture that reflects the moonlight. He observes John, traces the lines and crevices on his skin. His eyes are vibrant and full of wonder.

"We've known each other before," he says, "But we've only just met in this life,"

"How so?" John asks, twisting a finger through Sherlock's curls. Sherlock glides his gaze to John's curious eyes.

"Do you believe in reincarnation? Do you believe in fate?"

John had never really thought about it. When the idea of religion and afterlife did occur to him, it was always a mix of beliefs, but reincarnation did seem plausible. The idea that his soul will continue roaming this Earth when his body dies. And fate? Yes, John believed in fate.

"Yes, in some ways. I suppose I do. Do you?"

"No. Yet I've dreamt of you nearly every night, never having met you until now, dreams that are almost identical to those you described to me. How can that be? Are we part of some sort of experiment, or is it something more, something outside science? Perhaps I make an exception in this case."

John plays the words over and makes sense of what Sherlock is saying. "You think it's fate that we've met, and our souls are… reincarnated to be together? Do you think we were together in a past life?"

Sherlock's gaze is unwavering, and he looks intently into John, like he can see through him and everything about him. Each of his eyes are themselves an ocean, swallowing John into their depths. "Yes," he says.

It is not something he hears often, and coming from another person it would seem outlandish, but it comes from Sherlock who is so confident and grounded, and it just seems right. His explanation clicks into place, simply, easily, like the final piece of a puzzle that brings together the story.

"What are your dreams like? The ones that I'm in." asks John.

Sherlock ponders for a moment, though it is only for the sake of stalling. He knows his dreams inside and out. His wraps one cool hand into John's, and they exchange warmth.

"Some nights I am alone, staring up at the full moon. I know you are there, but I never know how to find you. And some nights I stand on the surface of the moon. There is a stone pathway that leads to a great castle surrounded by a field of violets. However all I see is the masked man in a grey suit: you."

A warm wave floods through John, seeping rapidly through his pores and filling him with a sort of heavenly feeling that he wishes wouldn't go away so quickly. Fate, is it? Reincarnated souls destined to meet and fall in love? How believable it is now. Lying with Sherlock feels _right_, Sherlock's company is home. They are not strangers, no. They were lost, and they found each other again.

"I'm glad we met in this life," says John.

Sherlock pecks him on the nose. "Me too."

Sleep is easy this night, and to John, maybe it's too easy. He is afraid that when he wakes, Sherlock will be gone again and the night will be nothing more than memory, and Sherlock will only be around in his dreams. But sleep is strong, and it takes when it needs to. It wraps John tenderly in its arms and covers him inside and out with cloud. He watches Sherlock sleep as he falls under his heavy eyelids, and floats again into dream.

But this dream is different. Sherlock waits for him on the stone pathway, smiling and no longer hidden behind his mask. Against the grandeur of the palace and rolling fields of violet, Sherlock is the grandest sight of all.

"May I have this dance?" he asks, extending his hand as John walks forward.

"It would be my honor," says John, bowing to take it.

They dance again, through violet fields in their silent crowd of two. Now John doesn't need to wonder. His stranger isn't a stranger anymore. He is Sherlock, whether human or angel. He is the Earth and John is the moon, waltzing eternally or to the end of time.

* * *

In the dark of the bedroom, Sherlock and John lay wrapped together with mirrored smiles and breathing in-tune, and if one looks close enough, they will see their bodies sway.


End file.
